As uneventful as my last trip to Europe was, this one has more than made up for it.

I knew I was going to experience some difficulties in arriving at my final destination in Civitanova Marche. I didn’t expect it would be quite this complicated.

First off, let’s talk about the wonder and joy that it is JFK airport. In what universe does one have to exit the concourse in which you arrived, leave the building, walk down a vehicle on-ramp, cross a construction site, enter a new terminal, check in at another airlines counter, be issued a new ticket, and then pass through security once more? Additionally, there are no signs to find said terminal nor is ther any indication that you have to check in at the other airline and get a new ticket. Furthermore, something in the pair of trousers I’m wearing keeps triggering those ridiculous body scanners, so I’ve had to endure a pat-down at each check-point. I’ve been groped enough in the last 24 hours to warrant dinner and a movie, compliments of TSA.  It was the most convoluted, cockamamie experience I’ve ever had at an airport – or at least I thought it was.

Enter the Rome airport. I knew going into my flight that I was going to have problems because of the recent cold snap bludgeoning Europe. Ancona, the airport I was supposed to fly into, closed because of snow.

I made sure to have my bag checked only so far as Rome, just in case I couldn’t make it to Ancona by plane. We waited over an hour for our bags to make it out at baggage claim. After which I proceeded to the Alitalia customer service desk (a misnomer if I’ve ever heard one) to figure out how I was going to make my way to Ancona. There was a long line, but the desk and waiting area became increasingly mobbed by people. A man trying to get help at the counter started yelling and gesturing wildly at one of the Alitalia agents and she responded by storming out of the customer service area and down the airport terminal. He followed, yelling at the top of his lungs. The two came back a few minutes later, shortly followed by police and more disgruntled flyers.

A woman nearby explained to me that the airline’s baggage handlers were refusing to unload the bags because of the snow. I learned at that point, that standing around a baggage carousel for over an hour was a small price to pay. After about 40 minutes of enduring pushing, shoving, yelling, and general chaos, I finally made it to the desk. Where they told me they couldn’t help me. All the flights were canceled. All the trains are cancelled. Maybe no flights tomorrow either.

And that was it. No help, no suggestions, no nothing. Just, “Hi, you’re stranded in a foreign country and no one will help you. See you later!” Thankfully, Fiorella, the woman who explained to me what happened at the customer service counter, was kind enough to let me use her cell phone to call my contact here in Italy – because I discovered that regardless of Verizon’s assurances that my cell phone would work in Italy, IT DOESN’T.

And then I discovered that my contact in Italy had given me the wrong cell phone number.

Thank the universe that I am a preparation freak and had prepared a document with any and all emergency contact information I might need while in Italy – complete with the correct phone number. After a mini-meltdown in which Fiorella comforted me with an Argentinean cookie, I remembered I had this piece of paper. Between Fiorella and I we managed to make contact – but I still had no idea what my options were. Sara, my contact in Italy, recommended trying a bus, but I couldn’t understand anything she said through the connection except that it left from in front of Terminal 3.

To make an already lengthy story a bit shorter, I hurriedly wandered back and forth trying to find my way with little success, discovered that Alitalia agents outside of customs are just as rude and useless as those within the belly of the airport, made an extremely expensive pay-phone call back to Sara, about lost my marbles because the connection sucked so bad I could barely hear her, and then proceeded to run down a terminal and a flight of stairs carrying three bags and just barely made it to the right bus on time.

I honestly don’t know I knew it was the right bus, and I probably shouldn’t have run into the street to try and intercept it, but it was already stopping as I did. The doors opened, I confirmed with my broken Italian that it was the right bus….and then the bus driver handed me his cell phone and told me it was for me.

What?

It was Sara, who had someone managed to make contact with the driver to hold the bus for me. Thank the good lord, because the next bus wasn’t for another 4 hours.

I am, as of right now, on the bus on my way to Fermo. I have no idea where that is, but apparently it’s close to where I need to be. I haven’t paid for a ticket yet, and I’m hoping that when they ask me to they take credit cards, because I didn’t have enough time at the airport to withdraw any Euro. I have no idea how long the ride will be or when I will get to eat next, or really what to expect when I get to Fermo.

I guess if I wanted an adventure out of this trip, that’s surely what I’m getting.